“Are you sure you’re gonna be alright?”
“Yeeess, Mom. How many times do I have to tell you, I’ll be fine,” my teenage son replied while impatiently leading me out the front door of our house.
“OK, OK, but don’t forget to feed Dinghy . . .” I said, stepping over the threshold.
“Yes, I got it. Morning and night.”
“ . . . and walk him . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, four times a day,” he interrupted.
“Two . . .”
“Two short and two long. I got it!” He snapped and nudged me onto the porch.
“Please eat some fruit with breakfast tomorrow, and don’t sleep in too late.”
“Mom — Dad and the girls are waiting for you in the car.”
“And when you shower, don’t forget to use a little extra soap on your . . .”
“MOM! GO!” my son barked, giving me one last shove off. I managed a hasty smooch, then headed for the car with my overnight bag.
As my husband pulled away, I honked the horn, waved wildly out the window, and yelled, “We’ll call you!” My son’s bulky figure diminished in the distance, and I sat back and closed my eyes.
My mind raced. We’d never left him overnight before, and even though he’s seventeen, I just couldn’t stop thinking of what might go wrong.
“He always leaves things on the stairs — what if he trips and falls? Or, what if he tries to cook a pizza and sets the house on fire? What if he stays up all night playing video games, then he’ll be too tired tomorrow to get his homework done? Worse yet, what if he figures out how to order porn on TV? Oh Lord . . . we need to turn around and go back,” I thought.
The landscape out my window was turning from swampy coastal scruff, to woodsy wetlands. I stared into the tangled vegetation rushing by, took a deep breath, and tried to calm my nerves. I made a mental note to call home every couple hours, and, somewhere along the way to Tallahassee, I dozed off.
“You have arrived at your destination,” our GPS announced with her assigned British accent, and I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
Ever since I met her at a swim team meeting in 9th grade, Patti and I had been best friends. Throughout high school, we were inseparable, and stayed in touch after graduation, even when my Navy life took us far away. Patti, her husband, and their two kids had just moved from Pittsburgh to Tallahassee, and we were excited to catch up after so many years of living far apart.
When you know people for that long, inhibitions tend to melt away. By eight-o-clock, we were acting like total idiots. Our kids looked on somewhat frightened, as we cranked 80s tunes and relived our youth. My husband channeled Modern English on a play drum set, and my best friend’s husband did a mean Roger Rabbit. The kids beat us in a merciless round of Right-Left-Center, and Patti and I cracked up over old photographs from high school. After midnight, we were racing across the pool in what we dubbed “The Noodle Olympics.”
Needless to say, we had a blast.
The next morning, we lazily sipped coffee and giggled about the events of the previous night. After lunch, we hugged, said our good-byes and piled back in the car.
About a mile out of Tallahassee, my cell phone rang, and I searched the bottom of my purse where it was buried.
“Hello?”
“Mamma, where are you guys?” my son asked with urgency.
“Well, we’re just heading out of Tallahassee ÔÇô why, what happened?”
“You said you were going to call, but you never did. How long is it going to take you to get here? Can’t you hurry up?”
In that moment, I felt a burning sensation in my heart. I wasn’t sure if I was experiencing the twinge of separation from my almost-grown son, the guilt of having briefly forgotten he existed, or acid indigestion from the French Cruller I’d dunked in my morning coffee.
“Don’t worry, Honey, we’ll be there soon enough . . . And besides,” I said with a painful swallow, “You’ll be just fine without me.”
Had to swallow the lump in my throat too.
(Perfect ending!)
Thanks for your help with that one, Maz!
Had to swallow the lump in my throat too.
I think you’ve got a story here, Lisa. Something like, “Left by his parents to die in a citrus grove, the young foundling was rescued and adopted by orange pickers. Ultimately, in a tragic twist of fate, he killed his biological father and married his birth mother.” Run with it.
Mike, HELLO! It was supposed to be heart-warmingly humorous, you nut! Your imagination is both bizarre and twisted, but creative, I must admit!
Beautiful story. I can’t imagine my son (at that age) calling to ask when we’d be home – unless it was to know how much time he had to get his “stuff” together before I found the evidence.
I guess that’s the benefit of having a son who is proud to be a math geek!
I feel the same way! You always put a smile on my face! 🙂
I am so pleased to have found another freaked out mom… AND one who promptly forgets to freak out about something she was sure she’ll freak out over on an average of twice every minute..! You can’t IMAGINE how pleased I am. Its a difficult mix you know. Anyone can do the ‘freak out’ bit. But try forgetting entirely when you’ve told people over and over HOW MUCH you’re going to do it…!
Bliss, you got nothing on me. Ha.
Either way, I am a freak most of the time!
Me too. And I say this with a smug satisfaction. 😀
I am sitting here staring at my computer, my facing wearing the expression….”Awwwwww!” with a little tear in my eye. I loved this Lisa. We’re probably about a year away from this scenario with our son. As always, you nailed it with your writing. Thank you!
🙂 Juls
Thanks Juls — it’s both freeing and heart wrenching to raise your son to be a man!